No one wanted to ask a drug addict if they were fine, and get an honest answer. No one wanted to take the time to have to comfort a grown fucking man. No one wanted to take the time to make sure that he was going to be fine.
"No, I'm fine." And here he was, back pressed against the side of his couch as his hands were wrapped around his own knees, rocking back and forth to try and bring himself some comfort, whispering those three dreaded words to himself to try and convince himself that he was fine, that he was fine, that he wasn't having a complete breakdown as tears blurred his sight and cries choked him, a flurry of words and thoughts and screams and voices all blending together in his mind as the static was louder than anything he'd ever heard, causing his ears to ring and a hand going up to press it against his ear to try and mute it all down, try to stop it, make an end to it.
"No, I'm fine." He whispered, even as a certain entity laughed at him and whispered that he wasn't, that he wasn't fine at all and that all he needed to do to make it fine was take them, swallow them down and--
He wasn't fine at all, but like Hell he was ever going to admit it.